


I Have Already Lost It

by beckdarkthrone



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Angela Moss - Freeform, Darlene Alderson - Freeform, Depression, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Drug Addiction, Elliot Alderson - Freeform, Mr Robot - Freeform, Self Harm, tw, tw self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24959845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beckdarkthrone/pseuds/beckdarkthrone
Summary: What happens when Morphine isn't enough destruction for Elliot anymore?
Kudos: 10





	I Have Already Lost It

I slam the door to apartment behind me and I lean on it, sighing.   
Finally, it is quiet. It is mute.  
I am alone.

I haul myself away from the door, throw down my bag and my hoodie, and sit next to Qwerty on the couch.  
Yeah, I am alone. Fuck.   
From the moment I sit down at work until the moment I enter my apartment block at the end of the day I want to be alone. When Ollie tries to invite me once again to some shitty lunch bar across the street, when Angela scolds me for not showing up to another gathering she organised over the weekend, when Gideon reminds me again to take off my hoodie, all I can think about it being away from all of it. In the comfort of my dark apartment. 

But as soon as that happens, I feel a deep sinking hole. Even you, friend, don’t stop me from feeling alone. I hate when I can’t hold in my loneliness. I feel a tear trickle down my face, but I wipe it away angrily; it is too fucking early to cry.   
I sit on the couch and stare at the ceiling, my stomach grumbling. When was the last time I ate? Do you know? Me neither. I have been losing weight exponentially over the last 6 months, Shayla comments on it every time we have sex. When I hug Angela – which is rarely – she always holds me at arm’s length, observing me. Seeing how my clothes do not sit on my properly anymore, how my check bones are more prominent, and the bags under my eyes are getting worse. She doesn’t ask though, she never asks. 

I make my way to the bathroom to search for my morphine stash in my medical cabinet. Before I open the door, I stare at myself in the mirror. I don’t even recognise myself anymore, I have been too worried about the hack, too worried about Mr Robot and what he may be doing to worry about myself. How has he let me get to this? I am alone. 

Suddenly, I feel myself punching the mirror. I don’t even remember making the decision to do it. But my fist collides with the glass and it smashes all around me, shards dig themselves deep into my knuckles.   
This is my glitch, this is my bug, revealing itself. My system is hung.   
I fall back against the wall and slide down to the floor hard, staring wildly at all of the glass surrounding me, cradling my hand which is bleeding freely now. I pull each shard from my hand and toss them on the floor, completely numb to the pain I am causing myself. Why? Why can’t I experience what is happening to me? Can you feel it? 

I find myself grabbing for a larger piece of broken mirror and holding it in my already shredded hand. Now what am I going to do? I roll the shard around in my hand, staring at it. I am staring at it. You’re staring at it. Mr Robot is staring at it. In an instant, I place it to my left arm, press hard, and pull it across my skin, over the scars left there by my mother over 20 years ago. It has been years since I hurt myself properly, I used to do it all the time when I was a teenager, even Darlene could tell I was cutting myself by the time I was 18, but when I moved to New York, I started using opiates and that vice sort of faded into oblivion, replaced with another destructive mechanism. 

Without thinking, I pull the shard across my skin again and again, until I begin to feel the dull ache of what I have done, that is when I dropped the shard and let it clatter on the tiled floor.   
I realise I am breathing heavy, staring at my arm with wide eyes, I have done some damage, fuck. I stand up slowly and steady myself against the vanity, staring at myself in the broken reflection. You fucker.   
Grabbing a bottle of morphine and a towel, I sit on my couch, and wrap the towel tight around me, then I empty my bottle of morphine on the mirror. Using a blade, I pulverise three tablets and inhale them sharply, feeling the burn in my sinuses.

As I begin to feel the morphine course through me, I see Mr Robot sitting on the bed, glaring at me.  
“You’ve fucked it now kiddo” he says harshly, lighting a cigarette.   
“Why?” I mumble in a haze, confused.   
Mr Robot laughs angrily, “look at yourself! You cannot fix this alone!!”  
I slowly unwrap my arm and observe it, he is right. I don’t know what to do. There are 5 long deep gashes, all of which probably need a thorough cleaning and bandage. But who can help? You can’t. I can not put Darlene through this again, it has been years since the last time she patched me up. That leaves Angela. Fuck. Of course. Ok. 

I lean back and yank the phone out of my pocket, and dial her number.  
“Elliot!! Hi!” Angela answers happily.   
“Elliot? What the fuck?” I hear Ollie mutter in the background, but I ignore him.  
“Come here, please… Help…” I murmur, too stoned to say anything else.  
Suddenly, Angela’s voice changes.   
“Elliot, what have you done?” She asks, she knows me too well. She has picked me up many times from various hospitals and clinics after my breakdowns and freak outs. She is always there to pick me up. Like now.  
“Just… Come…” I manage to stammer before hanging up and leaning my head back on the couch, waiting. 

***

I hear the door unlock as Angela lets herself in, thank-god she still has a key to my place after last time.  
“Fucking hell…” I hear her whisper, she must have seen the state of my bathroom, filled with glass and blood.   
“Fucking hell Elliot” She says again.  
I force my eyes open and I see her standing in front of me, eyes wide open. I must look like shit.   
“You do” Mr Robot snaps, still siting on my bed. I ignore him.  
Angela rushes to my side, and grabs my arm, still bleeding.  
“Jesus Elliot, it has been years since you have done this. Fuck” She whispers.  
Instantly, she stands up and begins to search my kitchen, returning with a bowel filled with water, a clean towel, and a fresh bandage. She has done this with my so often, she remembers what to do I guess. I don’t.

“Why?” She asks, as she begins cleaning the cuts gently.   
I don’t answer.  
She sighs “cut the crap Elliot. Why? The last time you did this was when you’re Mum gave you that black eye and kicked you out.”  
She is right. That was the night we chose to move to New York, together.  
“I just… Lost control…” I say slowly, not sure of what else to say.   
Angela looks around me as she cleans, and notices the half empty bottle of morphine. Gaping at me with wide eyes, she inspects the bottle.  
“Fuck Elliot, you are losing it this time”  
I smirk quietly, I have already lost it.


End file.
